Fob Watch: The Search For The Doctor
by SariauChan
Summary: What if Sherlock and Moriarty never met at the pool that night of The Great Games? What if the previous games were just a test for the final game? "Find me The Doctor within the next week or little Johnny will go boom!" The words were said happily from the pink phone's speaker. What if... Jim Moriarty is The Master?


**Chapter 1 - Mycroft Holmes**

There were lights shining and flashing blindingly into the sky, the crowds on each side of the street pressed tightly against the gates lining the cobble stone roads. Venders paced from each end, calling out their merchandise. The music trilled and vibrated across the pulsing air, winning in the battle against the noise of the crowds.

Above them, watching from his office, Mycroft was sitting comfortably in his chair in a pleasant mood when Sherlock burst through the double doors, obviously irate. He heard his younger brother start pacing back and forth mumbling about some sort of long standing conspiracy in the heart of history. The Doctor? Who? Doctor who? Mycroft stopped watching the pulsing crowd so far below. He finally looked up, noticing John Watson wasn't there nodding apologetically like he usually would. In fact, the man was missing.

"How is it possible no one has noticed-"

"Hit a wall, Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted with a smarmy smirk. Of course he knew the situation with Moriarty having kidnapped John as the last part of their "game." He didn't know, however, what the last challenge was, but he could guess with how his brother was going on about some doctor. "This is a rare occasion. Haven't you already hacked our systems- or do you need something else?"

"Yes... Yes! Right! I need you to tap the pink phone- find out where the call's coming from. I know you've done it before."

"And what makes you sure that I never stopped?"

"The fact that your name confused assistant is a horrible wire tap?"

A sigh, and Mycroft had his phone in his hand, texting his assistant who was in the next room. "Done."

It wasn't a second between when the pink phone rang. "Hello? John?"

"I'm sorry, John isn't available at the moment." A light Irish lilt purred through the speaker.

"Jim." Sherlock said, voice neutral. He glanced over at his brother and Mycroft gave a tiny nod, indicating that the call was being traced.

"Having fun with my puzzles, dear?" Jim hummed softly. "Bydd y ddraig goch yn arwain y ffordd at ei stori. And I've been waiting ages to give you this one to figure out." He chuckled, as though laughing at some inside joke.

"I'll figure it out. I always do." The detective murmured determinedly, eyes narrowing at Mycroft, urging him to work faster. Mycroft's eyes darted across the computer screen, fingers typing away. Only a few more moments and he'd have the location of the madman.

"Don't be so confident, Sherlock. My puzzle may go higher than your clearance." Moriarty commented flirtatiously and Sherlock could visualize his toothy grin, twisting his face into something nasty. "Have fun, now I must dash! So many things to do; so much time." He trilled like a bird before there was a click, and then nothing but the dial tone beeping monotonously.

Sherlock let out a low sound that sounded like a hiss and a growl in one, swinging around to face his brother again.

"Where is he?" He demanded, tossing his phone onto one of the posh chairs sitting in his siblings office in frustration.

"Western London." Mycroft stated, his hands steepled under his chinabut was a habit that both Holmes seemed to have acquired.

Sherlock began to pace once again, and Mycroft, unconcerned, typed away at his laptop. The tapping filled the room for a few minutes when Sherlock froze, looking down at the pulsing crowds celebrating something he couldn't bother to remember.

"Puzzles? Why plural, why- oh! That is clever!" Sherlock spun around, his long coat whipped about wildly, and his dark brown curly hair bounced with the movement around his angular features. "The entire call was a clue- I should have recorded it-"

"I -however- did." Mycroft interrupted, and turned his laptop to his brother, showing a sound file on the screen. "I was going through background noises while you were uselessly pacing my office a new hole."

Sherlock glowered at his brother for a few moments longer before he tersely spoke. "Well? What did you get?"

Mycroft turned the laptop back towards him, and continued typing away. "I haven't yet; it's still buffering." The tapping of the keyboard was driving Sherlock up the wall. "I'll send you the results when they're finished."

There was a pause only filled with Mycroft's typing. When, "Can I at least get the sound file?" His normal black phone rang just after he stopped talking. "Thanks." Sherlock said, and turned to leave.

But he stopped for too long at the double doors and his brother noticed. "Was there something else you needed?" The smarmy man had yet to look away from the illuminated screen or stop typing.

The only consulting detective in the world hesitated, as if thinking over words yet to be spoken. He shook his head, as though to banish those thoughts, and continued out the double doors, not bothering to close them behind him.

Mycroft sighed, and looked out the window to so very down below. It seemed the festival was over, the floats had come and gone. The pleasant mood he had managed to acquire was lost. He texted his assistant for tea.


End file.
